


Chasing Rabbits

by Ebyru



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman (Movies 1989-1997), Batman - All Media Types, Man of Steel (2013)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, Arkham Asylum, Arkham Verse, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, Physical Abuse, Supernatural Elements, no rape scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-04-30 22:49:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 13,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5182580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebyru/pseuds/Ebyru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arkham Mental Health Facility (formerly “Asylum”) isn’t home to criminals, but unusual cases of mental illness and ‘special’ citizens who need a safe place to be treated. Bruce Wayne is among them. He doesn’t realize his world isn’t the way he sees it, and some people prefer it that way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act 1: A

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Beta'd by  
> [AJRedRobin](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4009200), go check out the link to ask for help on your story too. I couldn't have done it without her comments and fast help. :)  
> 2\. Idea from  
> [Lennythereviewer](http://lennythereviewer.tumblr.com/post/114646854680) and all I did was tweak it, really. I hope I did it justice because the idea is harder to create than it seems.  
> 3\. There are no scenes of rape, just references near the end. I don't like to write them, so I won't have you read them.  
> 4\. Written for the 2015 DCU_Bang challenge :) and this is my first DC story as well, so please forgive any character issues I may have.  
> 5\. Some mental details may be off, and I apologize. I'm not a specialist, just a fan and a fic writer. I do have my own mental health experience, but not related to what I've written. Please just suspend disbelief for my tiny story.

_Welcome to Arkham_

 

Two-Face smells of bleach and lemon, his hands constantly dipped in the mixture after he’s bloodied them – beaten a patient or five into submission. Usually it’s Bruce Wayne because he talks too much for Two-Face’s liking. Only the patients call him Two-Face. The doctors don’t see Two-Face using his aggression so they don’t know it exists. It’s only when he’s certain they’ve gone for the night.

His real name is Harvey Dent, raised poor and violent by the slums of Gotham. In his youth, he was taught the best way to toughen up was to be taken down by someone stronger until it didn’t hurt anymore. It’s the only genuine way to heal. He knows the doctors at Arkham won’t agree with his method of ‘treatment,’ so he leaves “Harvey” behind after they live, and does it will they’re away.

Tonight, the doctors have gone for a social meeting together, and Two-Face plastered on a smile at them as they left. He taps his baton against each closed room, lining the single, long corridor. The windows for patients to look out from are tinted for privacy, but it paints Two-Face in a sinister light, half of him cast in shadows. They hold their breath as he passes, murmuring to themselves or to their roommates.

As usual, Bruce refuses to take the abuse quietly. “Someone needs to teach you a lesson,” he rumbles through his door.

Two rooms down, Pamela and Selina whisper to each other clearly enough that anyone can hear. “Why is he provoking him again?”

“I think he’s too stubborn for his own good”

“Maybe he’s got a death-wish.”  
“He might. He’s been here longer than any of us. Ten years is enough to make anyone lose it.”

“You’d think he’d give up by now though.”

“Shut up!” shouts Two-Face, slamming his baton against their room window multiple times. He grins slowly to add, “Don’t make me punish you like last week. Be quiet and sleep. It’s not your turn tonight.”

Bruce continues, “Why don’t you pick on someone who wants to fight?”

Two-Face chuckles, jingling his keys. “You asked for it, Brucie. No amount of money is gonna make me stop either. That didn’t save you from getting in here anyway.”

When he enters Bruce’s room, it’s dark and unlit. He knows most rooms either have lamps or light switches. If it were up to him, it would be completely under the staff’s control, no lights going on in the middle of the night when someone wakes from a bad dream or a panic attack. Deal with it in the dark. That’s what he had to do, and he’s on this side now.

Bruce tries to keep his breathing slow, paced, to sneak up on Two-Face. It could almost work if he didn’t rush out with his white shirt sleeves outstretched like wings, playing his silly ‘bat’ game again. Performing god’s duties like some insane dark angel.

“You’ll pay for what you did to those women,” he hisses, rushing forward.

“Yeah? I didn’t bring my wallet.” Two-Face laughs, pulling out a Taser from the waistband of his pants.

Bruce only dodges the first swipe; the second knocks against his ribs. Hundreds of volts send him to the ground in a heap, trembling with the shock. Even with the current flowing, Bruce manages to kick Two-Face in the shoulder as he leans over him. Bruce gets some air back that way. Two-Face snarls at him, baton out and Taser in the other hand, and pins Bruce with his weight. He tries to wrestle free, but in two swift moves Two-Face has a needle out of his back pocket and uncapped. It rams into Bruce’s neck, none too gently, probably leaving a bruise for tomorrow. His eyes slowly slide shut with Two-Face hunched over him, smirking.

 

_*_

Daylight arrives in a blink. Bruce lies on the floor of his room on his back. His muscles stiffen when he tries to sit up, the back of his thighs and shoulders aching the most. His skull throbs in a slow rhythm, a lump there that he doesn’t remember getting. It’s not the first time he’s awoken to sore limbs and extra bruising in odd places.

“Bruce,” purrs Selina, tapping on his window. He’s awake enough to open the door. “When will you learn you can’t catch flies with vinegar? Use some of your honey. You must have _some_.”

Next to her, Pamela snorts. “I think vinegar runs through his veins. He’s always so bitter.”

All doors unlock during the day to allow for socializing between patients – should they choose. Bruce doesn’t usually. It’s easy to keep an eye on them with a camera at every door, and one in every common room, too. It also helps that the building is built horizontally, a long stretch of rooms rather than stairs and stairs leading upwards.

The two women continue to stare at him from the doorway, whispering.

“What do you want?” he snaps. His brain must have rattled in his skull yesterday when he fell; just hearing his voice inside his head hurts.

“Wow. Someone woke up on the wrong side of a needle. I think even I can’t make you feel better,” says Pamela, tutting. “Let’s go, Selina. I bet someone else will trade us.”

There’s a trade system in Arkham among patients that the orderlies allow because they also use it. Small amounts of booze, cigarettes, even makeup and books are the usual items of interest. The bartering system works especially well since the doctors turn a blind eye to it, considering it a good reflection of society outside of the hospital. It also keeps the patients happy. Two-Face doesn’t stop it either because it benefits his…needs.

The doors can’t be shut during the daytime. It’s easier to keep an eye on the patients that way, easier to tackle them if needed. The slow, measured, loud steps down the hall never mean anything good; people who want to be heard coming have the confidence not to use stealth; are usually the strongest, the most dangerous.

Bruce kneels next to his door, peering into the hall with half of his face. Two-Face crosses in front of his doorway, whistling. “Are you scared?” he mouths with humour. Two-Face has his image to uphold during the day, charming and calm as Harvey the district attorney.

Bruce frowns at him, but refuses to respond to such an obvious taunt. Then Two-Face’s eyes slide away from him over to the hall where more footsteps sound. His grin disappears quickly. With just that, Bruce knows it has to be Bane, the literal bane of his existence.

No one dares cross a man like Bane who is both unreadable and unnaturally intelligent. This calms Bruce, though; Two-Face considers the muscled, educated man a rival of his – except one of them has slightly more sharpened skills. (One guess as to whom.) Two-Face hasn’t moved from in front of Bruce’s room, still looking at Bane as he approaches slowly. When Bane reaches the same spot, he looks up from his copy of _Dante’s Inferno_. Two-Face narrows his eyes.

“May I help you with something, Dent?” he says coolly. Each word mimics a trap made ready. They’ve had fights in the past, simply because Two-Face couldn’t ‘sedate’ him the way he does the other patients.

The first time they clashed, Two-Face retreated with a split lip and his face bruised and swollen. The following month, Bane had a black eye, but Two-Face got his jaw dislocated in retaliation. Those were the rare nights when the patients were left to their own devices, and allowed to fall asleep without a concussion or injection. Sadly, Two-Face has since learned that it’s more satisfying to take his frustration out on patients who can’t fight back as well.

“Not today,” grits Two-Face. He forces the tightest smile Bruce has ever seen. Bane nods with an easier smile, and returns to his book. His steps continue down the hall towards the exit leading to the flower garden. He often reads on a shaded bench there.

Two-Face waggles his fingers at Bruce, who is still crouched down, ready for a fight. He goes down the hall, the opposite way Bane went.


	2. Act 1: B

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're confused, it's probably my fault. lol  
> (also it's just begun)

“You know, he never does anything during the day. He wouldn’t jeopardize [YK1] his cover like that,” says Robin. He sits next to Batman on his bed. He’s the only one Batman’s allows with him in his room; being family doesn’t hurt.

 

Batman groans out a wordless reply.

“What’s wrong?” asks Robin, his brow creasing. “Did he hurt you again?”

“Well that goes without saying.” Batman frowns, glancing through his tinted window where he sees Bane passing by with a book. “Why do they all know where I live?”

“Because you’ve fought against them for a long time. It’s not like you’ve moved in ten years.” Robin chuckles, brushing his shoulder against Batman’s. “I’m here, though. I can help sometimes if you need me.”

“I don’t want you involved. I can handle it.” Batman smiles briefly. “You’re a good kid.”

“I’m almost 18, you know,” scoffs Robin. “I’m trained in self-defence too. Just let me help.” He touches Batman’s back gently as to not hurt his new injuries. “You have so many scars.”

There are cuts littering his back and arms, bruises forming near his ribs and on each leg, and the occasional cigarette burn. It’s not often Batman forgets to put a shirt on – to shield Robin from seeing. Two-Face and Bane’s exchange must have really taken him off guard.

“I’ll live,” grits Batman. “You stay as far from here as you can.”

“But Bruce—”

“I mean it. The rest of the world is brighter than this place. Go see it.”

Robin sighs. “I won’t go too far. Still need to bug you once in a while.” He grins after a cheeky wink.

\---

Right after Batman convinces Robin to leave, Joker and Harley show up. They knock, which is most unexpected since they normally just barge in together, giggling and rowdy. They’re not empty-handed: Joker has a knife, and Harley her usual baseball bat. They’ve just opted to be courteous before the fight starts.

“Batty, how’s it hanging?” laughs Joker. Harley chuckles behind her palm, twirling her ponytail. “Wanna go a few rounds? You look broodier than usual. It might be the perfect pick me up.” Joker smirks, his scars stretching sickly, seeming as if they might tear open anew. The face paint doesn’t help the effect.

“Anytime, Joker. I’m ready anytime,” growls Batman. He slips on his dark cowl, stretching his limbs. At least they’re giving him a chance to put on some defensive wear.

“Can we start now, Puddin’? I’m so excited to try something new today.” She smirks, batting her lashes at Batman.

“Don’t rush it, Harley. We need to make sure he’s at full power or it won’t last as long.” He chortles. “Isn’t that right, Bats?”

“Exactly,” says Batman clicking on his cuffs to get the spikes out.

The Joker throws his head back to laugh harder.


	3. Act 2: A

“This is your new neighbour – Clark Kent,” says Dr. Joe Carr. Bruce doesn’t respond, but his expression shows curiosity, so he assumes they’ll get along fine. Clark ducks his head politely, and smiles as he’s ushered to the room next to Bruce’s.

 

 

Patient Profile

Name: Clark Kent

Age: 22

Illness: unknown

Background information: He was sent by the city of Metropolis. A possible ward of the state? He doesn’t know why they sent him for psychological attention. The officials seem to consider him an “ill fit” with the rest of the population. More tests and evaluations required.

 

 

The drugs don’t work on Clark -- the ones that keep everyone else from having terrible thoughts and night terrors. It’s something of a sedative, but more natural-based. Dr. Harleen Quinzel created the formula. No one complains of side effects or the like; she tested it on herself to ensure it. Bruce hates it, but he’s vehemently against most things that soften his edges, and set his mind at ease. Anything that brings him into reality. However, Clark…something to do with his metabolism – his height maybe – something about him is different enough that it doesn’t perform. Instead, she tries to draw blood to find the cause, and the needles break before they can pierce his skin. Clark's eyes are as wide as Dr. Quinzel's when that happens.

The upside is Bruce gets intrigued by this effect. He finally wants to know about another patient.

\---

Some days it gets inexplicably warm or cold in the hospital. A one-level place should be easy to regulate temperature-wise, but for strange reasons isn’t. That is, until Clark shows up. Then temperature holds at 15C in winter and 20C in summer. It never sways too far, and when it does, it fixes itself before Dr. Carr or Dr. Quinzel can call a repairman.

The second night Clark is at Arkham, Two-Face goes after him. It’s a ritual to him: break in the new patient so they know who’s in charge, and they realize this is part of their treatment. The patients hold their breath when they see him stalk over to Clark’s room, swinging a baton. The sound of skin hitting skin is loud in the quiet corridors.

Two-Face exits, holding his fist in his hand, and Bruce peeks out to see one of his shoulder bones jutting out at an odd angle. He can’t hit anyone else that night or the weeks following, not until he’s healed up. After that, he doesn’t return to Clark’s room; he even makes a conscious effort to look away from him when they pass each other in the hall.

Then there’s the night he announces to the women that he’s coming for them. “Better get ready for me. You know how I like it!” he chuckles.

Clark breaks down his door – a door Harvey locked personally, along with Bruce’s - and rushes to save them, standing in front of their entrance. He stands there to keep Two-Face out. The following day, while Clark is in the garden accompanied by an orderly, Two-Face installs stronger bolts on the door, adds an expensive electronic latch to the frame, and prepares a chair to slip underneath the knob if it comes to that.

The doctors go away, wishing everyone well for the night, and Two-Face stalks back to his prey. Clark hears him coming down the hall. He bangs, and bangs, but can’t get out through his door. He breaks through his window, landing outside in the grass and leaves. He sets off the perimeter alarm; there’s a reason patients are only allowed out during the day and with an orderly.

Two-Face shows footage of Clark escaping to get permission to use extra security for his room. He makes sure to edit out the parts that would incriminate him, his taunting especially, and the subsequent beating he put Bruce through to let off some steam.


	4. Act 2: B

There’s a new man in Gotham – if he is a man. He works at the Daily Planet, seemingly appearing from thin air. Some small town, Kansas kid, he says. People introduce him as Clark Kent when he wants to interview him about Wayne Enterprise, but Batman knows that’s just a cover. An unassuming name for a harmless-looking man. It’s unmistakable what he is: invulnerable, fast, strong. There are days that Batman swears he sees him fly by, but no one would believe him if he said it aloud.

The upside is Superman keeps Two-Face away. He might be a ruthless man, but his senses are honed by his upbringing; he can also feel there’s something extra about “Clark.” And Clark seems to be interested in Batman, wanting to interview and speak with him constantly. Always somewhere nearby, making it hard for Two-Face to get close.

\---

"Hey, Bruce, I think I met your brother," he says in passing one day. He fixes his dark-framed glasses higher up on his nose.

Batman raises a brow, using his gently condescending tone. "I don't think that's possible." No one has ever met Robin because he refuses to be associated in any way with Bruce or Batman outside of duty. None of his usual spar partners - Ivy, Catwoman - have ever mentioned him either. He must have thought an a stranger was related to Batman in some way.

"I swear he said he was your brother, though..." Clark looks pensive, scratching his nape. "Oh, well. My mistake."

Regardless, Batman has to find out how much he knows about his personal life. And make sure to find out about "Clark" at the same time.

\---

In the suit, the black Kevlar, Batman can safely investigate his claim, put his worries to rest. As batman, he has to make sure Superman isn’t working with people like Joker or Bane. If he’s as harmless as he says, then good: Batman will keep his observations to himself. The world doesn’t need to pick apart an innocent man. (Or someone who is probably not even a man.)

It’s a gloomy night, foggy even. The best kind of night for Batman to seek out Superman and tail him. He’s always best at night, the darkest of them-- the type of nights that people avoid. It seems he’s not alone though. When Batman finds him, he’s in a tight suit with a cape, all in bright colours. He can smash through walls and deflect bullets – without a single scratch – and all to stop a robbery in progress. It’s not long before Superman notices he’s being followed, but he smiles and leaves, too fast for Batman to follow.

Clark is something more; but when he does those things it’s to protect himself, and to fight against criminals (of which there are a lot in Gotham). He’s not needlessly destructive, mean, and sadistic like a certain Two-Face. He passes. He’s all right in Batman’s book.


	5. Act 3

The nightly fights with Two-Face--

At first, Batman thought the sadist could track him somehow, and always find him when he was in the mood for some blood. But considering it’s always right after he’s been toyed with by Harley and Joker (or before), when they’ve gone away without laying a finger on him, it has to be their doing. They must tell Two-Face where to find him, where he can satisfy that violent itch. It must be some compromise so they don't have to get their hands dirty.

The others just so happen to prowl during the night, too. Catwoman flourishes at night, a true nocturnal. Her name says it all: a woman, feline, uncontrollable, and with nine lives. Poison Ivy has to be a respectable doctor during the day, even with the way she speaks. At night is the only time she’s free to let loose. It’s also the time when Two-Face wants to crush all their spirits.

Some nights they come away with gashes and burns, whip marks even. Poison Ivy shares her plant serums with Catwoman when simple licking doesn't do the trick. In exchange, Catwoman uses her senses to find the best way out of tight spots and dangerous situations. Two-Face isn't only in playing moods; he also gets into bloodthirsty ones. 

\---

It's nearly evening when Batman spots Catwoman in her "normal" clothes, headed to Pamela's office. If she's going with people around it's because she doesn't think they'll be safe come night. The streets whistle and call like beasts, the people even louder. In the dark, with only street lights, not a soul wanders alone. There might as well be a curfew for how frightened people are.

Batman watches the office for an hour, two. He wonders if they'll come out at all. Maybe they've found a safe haven in Pamela's day-work. Suddenly, they slither out together. Catwoman is in her usual leather, and Poison Ivy has a shimmering green dress to match her nails and shoes. They walk slow, quiet, delicately down the main street. When they go into an alley, Batman follows.

There's an electronics store with a TV in the window that films everyone who passes by. Catwoman grins and slides a nail against the glass of the shop. "You wanna break in for a bit?"

"Think you can do it without the alarm going off?" asks Poison Ivy. She looks around, nearly catching Batman off-guard. He hides behind a stairwell just in time.

Catwoman purrs out, "I think we can do anything we set our minds to."

Poison Ivy laughs softly, nodding. They smash the window of the door, and the alarm comes blaring afterward. Before the police can catch them, they've written insults and foul expressions about Two-Face and his sexual deviance outside of the law he upholds. The police scratch their heads at the messages in spray paint.

"Do any of you know a Two-Face?" asks the eldest of them. It figures his district attorney cover would work this well.

\---

In spite of their misdemeanors, Batman knows they don’t deserve the treatment Two-Face subjects them to when he finds out. He knows they aren’t rotten souls – nothing like him. When he can, he’ll shift the focus onto himself to spare the two women. Often it works. Sometimes his taunting isn’t good enough to dull the appeal of a woman. Those nights perturb him most of all. His body may be spared, but his mind is left jagged and torn apart, and none of his weapons seem to hurt Two-Face enough when he gets that urge. He doesn’t stop. He never stops until one of the women cries out for mercy or they both pass out. He leaves the trio behind, wanting more than anything for the sun to rise.

It’s always a surprise when they visit him the following day, speaking playfully as if nothing occurred, flirtatious and sharp-witted. It's not hard to find Bruce Wayne in his tower; they've known his identity for a long while. That's mainly because his aftershave gave him away. Both of them have their sense of smell honed from different techniques. In all honestly, he doesn't mind the company of people he considers peers - even if they are more criminal than kind.


	6. Act 4: A

Diana changes everything. She keeps Two-Face from the women with her simple presence in the Arkham facility. But he doesn’t mind the distraction if it means getting a piece of her instead. “Harvey” uses his sweet-talking, charming persona to appeal to her the same way he does with the doctors; though it has the opposite effect. She sees right through his attempts at seduction, and turns him down a number of times.

Finally, when he doesn't get the message--

“How ‘bout a drink?” he asks for the fifth day in a row. He blocks her exit from the hospital with an outstretched arm against the frame.

She was planning to meet Bane in the garden to discuss a book she read that she thought he might enjoy; it’s about angels and demons, and how they encounter each other and relate in unexpected ways.

“I have a meeting to attend,” she says with a soft smile. “Sorry.” She pats his shoulder, ducking below his arm easily.

When he reaches for her wrist as she passes, she dodges, and wrenches his arm behind his back. Her smile doesn’t change. Neither does the tone of her voice. “I wasn’t clear? I don’t have time today. Do not touch people without permission, Harvey. It’s bad manners.” She lets him go in increments as he struggles to get free. It's her way of showing how much force she can use if necessary.

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing his arm. “Yeah, sorry. I just really need a drink and I thought you did too.”

She nods, smiling. “Sadly, I don’t drink. Perhaps one of the other orderlies will join you.” She doesn’t wait for his response, and she purposely avoids coming across him whenever she can in later days. He eventually gets the message. His mood is almost as sour as his dejected face.

\---

The patients have a different relationship with Diana. Selina asks for chocolate milk at least once per week, and Diana does everything she can to sneak some in without the doctors noticing.

She holds her arm out with the item, and Selina nearly squeals with glee. "What do I owe you?" She hops off her bed and joins Diana in the doorway of her room. Pamela smiles, shaking her head. She's busy with the nail file Diana got her a couple days ago, lying on her stomach with her feet crossed and folded.

"Nothing," says Diana. She hands the half carton of milk to her. "Just make sure you enjoy every drop. It wasn't easy getting this past Dr. Crane. You know how he can be with body-mind cleanses sometimes."

Selina shivers. "The last time he gave me a cleanse, I couldn't taste anything sweet for days."

The bed creaks when Pamela sits up; she switches to filing her toenails. She looks up at Diana when she feels eyes on her feet. "Would you happen to have green nail polish?" she asks with a curled lip.

Diana laughs, pretending to search through her scrubs. "Not today. Maybe in a while. Is it urgent?"

Pamela sighs dramatically, waving a hand. "Not yet. I still have some left over."

Diana crosses her arms against her chest. "Dr. Quinzel allowed that? I'm surprised considering she makes most things herself, and that's _filled_ with toxins."

"It's just for my nails. And besides, she's the one who gave me it, so I'm guessing it's natural," laughs Pamela. She sits up straighter, leaning forward. "If you have any complaints, take them up with her."

Diana shakes her head, walking out of their room backwards for effect. "No, not a chance. I saw how she reacted when you two broke the vending machine." There were pieces of glass everywhere, and for some reason Dr. Quinzel was barefoot. The scream she let out was not only piercing, but entirely terrifying in its severity. Diana was certain there had be two dead bodies in the place of these women. Who she went after instead was Harvey - since he was meant to give them change, and he refused. It wouldn't have done them any good to be scolded like children anyway; their illnesses don't respond well to threats.

 

Patient Profile  
Name: Selina Kyle  
Age: 25  
Illness: trust issues, possible sociopath, obsession with cats & cat-related things?  
Background Info: She fell out of a building a few years prior, and no one noticed her lying on the ground. A stray cat came to her body, and its attention woke her up. She was able to limp her way to a hospital with the cat following. It disappeared afterwards.

 

Patient Profile  
Name: Pamela Isley  
Age: 30  
Illness: trauma, mild depression  
Background Info: She has a Ph.D in Biochemistry; she helped formulate Dr. Quinzel's natural sedative. She worked part time at Arkham until her boyfriend broke up with her, and tried to set her on fire inside her apartment.


	7. Act 4: B

Wonder Woman is unmistakeably on the side of justice. As Diana Prince she speaks calmly, firmly, but always in a kind fashion. People tend to gravitate towards her, seeking her out for job opportunities and friendship. Admittedly, so does Batman. It’s not only based on looks; she has strength on multiple levels.

Batman has seen her pull entire families from burning buildings, but also confront Two-Face and Joker without so much as having to raise a finger. If Batman is honest, she resembles an ideal of humanity he wishes were attainable for everyone else. He’d likely need a number of lives for that. She’s far passed him, way above him, closer to Nirvana than any other person.

Then again, Batman has his doubts she’s wholly human. She _has_ to be from elsewhere; there’s an otherness about her, and the accent is difficult to place, too. Maybe she is human because she’s different from Superman who demonstrates impossible feats; her feats are internal, psychological, born of a well-rounded upraising. A place that isn’t as gritty and flawed as Gotham certainly.

That’s why it’s almost a shock when she agrees to meet him on a quiet night for a chat. Just a talk about the mundane – him as Bruce, her as Diana. The people inside the heroes. The bench feels cool under his fingertips; she pulls her jacket tighter to her, smiling. Her kiss takes him off-guard, tilts his world’s axis. The sun is barely down and her lips touch his, so warm and sweet, it feels like it’s rising again in this limbo between aliases.

Leaves crunch as his feet jolt with the pressure of her kiss, and she laughs, touching him gently. “You’re a nice man,” she tells him. An almost absurd expression to define a playboy like Bruce or a vigilante like Batman. Often, his senses are more bat than human, his mind more dark than real. A creature flying blind towards an unknowable ideal. When he laughs softly in return, she pulls away and tells him, “Goodnight,” a tight crease between her brows.

She may never look at him again, but it’s just as well. She stands at the pinnacle of light, and he scurries in darkness.


	8. Act 5

Bane is a beast of his own. He answers to nothing and no one but his own will. A loner beyond what Batman thinks of himself, straddling the line of lawful and criminal at each blink. Two-Face loves a challenge – part of why he goes after Batman so often – but even he understands Bane’s destructive force. It also helps that he got firsthand experience of it.

It’s not simply that Bane is strong, well-trained, and intelligent; it’s his inability to give up. He has an insatiable need to overcome anyone who tests his patience. Unlike Two-Face, he’s not confrontational to a fault; he just refuses to be harassed or taken for a farce.

One of the two has integrity, and Batman is glad it also happens to be the strongest of them.

\---

There’s one night -- Batman’s skin like a tight leash against him, so much that he wants to crawl away from it – that leads to a terrible decision.

Batman sees Bane, book in hand, pacing around Gotham. But he’s still Bruce, still in his expensive suit and shoes, his sports car. He can’t pursue him this way. He pins a tracker on Bane by brushing past him subtly. He rushes back to the mansion, slips into the Kevlar, and then he tails him seriously. Outwardly, Bane doesn’t intimidate. His gait is normal, measured. But he seems to walk with a suspicious purpose towards an abandoned warehouse.

Stupidly, Batman follows too closely and gets spotted. Bane looks back directly at him, tucking a finger in his book and waiting. He doesn’t enter the warehouse. Batman figures it’s his chance to rush in – which is when his senses betray him. He has to dodge the sharpest onslaught of punches he’s ever faced. One connects with his ribs, just one, and it’s enough to break a couple of them. He can feel the loud crack as if his body snaps in two.

Once Bane is satisfied that Batman won’t follow, he leaves, immersing himself in his book once again. Not even glancing at the warehouse. With him gone, Batman has no one around to help him. It’s oddly deserted for this time of night in Gotham, not a criminal about ready to take advantage of the mistake. It's lucky for his wounds, but unlucky too. Batman is used to picking himself up after a fight though; except normally his battle wounds represent a victory, not a loss.

Batman makes sure not to follow when he’s in a hotheaded mood. And he and Bane seem to…not exactly get along, but they have an understanding about it. Until Bane does something truly criminal, not just on the edge of grey, then Batman will let him be. It's the same decency he allows to Catwoman and Poison Ivy anyway.


	9. Act 6: A

Dr. Edward Nygma prides himself in giving his patients as much time as they need to answer his questions. They aren't exactly easy, but they shouldn't produce such a scowl from Bruce either. He presses his hands between his thighs like a child, rocking forward and back. The timer might be what's upsetting him, but it's the only way Dr. Nygma has to make sure Bruce responds.

He disappears inside his head so quickly these days; he's a master of avoidance.

"Bruce, did you hear what I said?" he asks, placing his pen down. He knows Harleen never jots in a notebook, but his memory isn't as elephant-like as hers. His requires a bit of a refresher once in a while.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replies shortly. He curls in on himself, his rocking slower.

Dr. Nygma writes down the reaction. It's not exactly new, but it's never shown up so quickly before. It's only been five minutes. "All right. Let's move on to something else. Who do you believe you are?"

"Batman," he grinds. "And I know who I am. I know."

The name comes easy to Bruce; no one knows where that persona came from. He didn't have parents to follow, and no siblings either. His only living relative is his butler, Alfred, and he doesn't have any inclination towards vigilante work clearly. It must have been during one of his foster stays. Maybe they brought him around bats and he took a liking to their way of life, their patterns, their physical appearance. He tends to stick to black shirts, especially with long sleeves so he can use them as "wings." He has a similar shirt on today.

"And do you know where you are? Think carefully, Bruce."

Bruce frowns suddenly. "How do you know my real identity? Who told you? Was it Two-Face? Bane? Tell me!" he shouts out loudly.

It takes Dr. Nygma by surprise, and he clutches his pad to his chest, not sure how to respond. He chooses the first person who comes to mind. "It was Dr. Carr."

With a flutter of 'wings,' Bruce swats away the timer and it crashes to the ground. "I'm gonna get that sick clown one day. Be glad you're at the bottom of the list," he says pointing aggressively.

Dr. Nygma considers this. If indeed he should be grateful, then should he warn the other doctors? It could be so much more interesting to watch the outcome instead...

The timer rings on the linoleum, startling them both. "Try again next time?" asks Dr. Nygma hopefully.

Bruce's lip twitches and he stalks out the door.


	10. Act 6: B

The Riddler and his endless games. Batman should be glad he hasn’t thought to team up with the Joker yet; that would be a headache that wouldn’t quit. Riddler has a new game tonight. He left Batman a note in the mansion – another criminal who knows his true identity and where he lives for some reason – and nothing more. Alfred gave it to him with a quirk of his mouth, and Batman wanted to punch him when he opened it up to find a dinner invitation.

“Perhaps you’ll have more luck with criminals than women,” he teases with a laugh.

\---

Riddler has a table set up for them, two place-mats, two glasses of white wine, and a warm soup. He sips as Batman takes a seat, already frowning. His new game is timed, of course; there’s a clock between their glasses. He slides over a card with a riddle inside.

Batman has no idea how to solve it, and time runs out.

“What a shame,” says Riddler, wiping the corner of his mouth. “Better luck on the next course.”

He takes the card away and a blond woman appears with two trays, both with bruschetta with tomato and bocconcini. She leaves silently and Riddler hands Batman another card. “Try this,” he says. “And the food,” he adds as an afterthought.

It could be poisoned; he hadn’t eaten the soup for that reason. It’s too easy to dilute things in hot liquids. Italian food though…Batman has always had a soft spot for it. Besides, if Riddler wanted him dead, he could have done it after he didn’t solve the first card.

The second card is just as difficult if not more, and Batman is sweating in his Kevlar. It’s keeping him from solving it.

“Maybe you should get more comfortable,” says Riddler with a chuckle. He waves a hand as if dismissing the second card. He plucks it away and tosses it under their table. “Next,” he says with a flourish.

The woman returns, another tray, this time chicken with béchamel sauce and steamed vegetables. It smells and looks delicious. Batman almost says, “My compliments to the chef,” until he remembers where he is, and groans in frustration. Is this some kind of twisted date?

“Here,” says Riddler, handing him the next card. They’ve all been red, but this one is green. He starts the timer, but the result is the same. He can’t solve it. His head hurts. His mind protests against this. The questions seem so simple, but they’re impossible to answer. Impossible to understand.

Riddler’s challenges seem to be in another tongue, a language Batman hasn’t learned or heard before. He can’t possibly respond. But he takes his time, struggling until the last second. He hopes he’ll have a stroke of luck and guess correctly, but he doesn’t. he has yet to.

Dessert is a chocolate mousse. Riddler seems to relish it the most, licking his fingers at the end of it. The timer goes off, startling Batman; he forgot he was meant to be solving the final card – a blue one with Robin’s photo in the centre—

Riddler pats him on the shoulder as he stands, saying, “Try again?”

The next round isn’t as kind; he’s tied by his feet, blood rushing to his head. If he was meant to succeed before, while calm and enjoying a meal, this is just meant as torture now. Blood rushes to his head, but Riddler doesn’t kill him; he lets him go by the end. No doubt having too much fun to end it like he threatens to.


	11. Act 7: A

In the hall of the therapy room, the doctors discuss a plan of action. Bruce is too far to hear them. “Perhaps if I stay out, he’ll speak with you,” says Dr. Carr.

Dr. Quinzel tilts her head side to side, considering. “He doesn’t particularly trust me more than he does you.”

“It’s worth a try,” he insists. “He hasn’t cooperated in weeks.”

Dr. Quinzel sighs, lifting her glasses to rub the bridge of her nose. “All right.” She ties her hair back in a ponytail. “Just don’t expect some kind of miracle.”

 

\---

 

“Hi, Bruce.” She smiles politely. There’s nothing in the room save for two single sofas and a low, wooden table to rest cups on. It’s as friendly as they could make it: bright curtains, a soft carpet, a nice, wide window with a garden just in view. Bruce stares at his hands. “Would you like something? Coffee, tea, water?”

Bruce shakes his head, looking off to the side. She’s already lost him to his thoughts. He’s wary of her even when Dr. Carr isn’t in the room. Being his associate, Dr. Quinzel is given the same treatment – suspicious looks and silence. Dr. Carr even left the hospital to ensure they’d be completely alone in hope that Bruce would appreciate it.

“Is there anything you’d like to discuss with me? A dream or a thought maybe?”

Bruce heaves a sigh, looking over at the window. He crosses his arms, a subtle way of telling her he doesn’t intend to share any of his thoughts. He might not even be aware of the implication of his body language; his limbs used as a series of barriers to hold her at bay.

“Are you sure I can’t—”

Bruce scoffs, making eye contact for the first time. “Why are you here? Don’t you have someone else to bother?”

No hope for progress again it seems.


	12. Act 7: B

Whenever Harley shows up alone, Batman both sighs with relief and worries where Joker might be (and who he’s tormenting instead). Aside from her boundless energy and teenage-inspired hairdo, Harley doesn’t do much harm. Certainly if Batman taunted her – which he wouldn’t – she would lash out with her bat. There’s no need though.

Harley twists her hair with a soft smile, legs crossed. He invited her into the mansion because it was no use leaving her outside in the dark to scream at the top of her lungs like she’s done in the past. As usual, Batman has no idea how she found him, but he’s given up trying to prevent it. She drugged his guard dogs, beat his bodyguards, jolted his cameras and security systems, so it costs more to keep her away than to let her come.

At least it’s daytime. When Gotham can almost pass for decent.

Alfred walks into the room and immediately walks back out, mouthing, “I see you’re busy.” He wants to roll his eyes, but that would just amuse her more and convince her to stay. Any response will make this last longer.

“You got anything you wanna confess to me?” she asks, batting her eyes. She laughs when he frowns.

He could play along. He would if he knew where Joker was. That clown could be listening in, waiting for a reason to barge in and attack Batman in his own home. Take him unexpected. Joker toys with Batman almost for a living, but doesn’t want his tows touched; he despises losing control of a situation. And people within it.

When the silence stretches too long, Batman just sipping coffee, and Harley’s patience fraying at the edges as she bounces a knee, she says, “I’m just teasing, god. Don’t need to be so serious all the time.”

Last time Batman checked, Gotham doesn’t offer much humour. A shame considering the funny characters that live in the city: a man dressed as a bat, a clown, a scarecrow, a demented cheerleader, a poison-plant lady, an overgrown feline, and a riddle-obsessed narcissist. The list grows each year, too. Gotham may as well advertise itself as a circus for freaks and crazies looking for their kin.

That gets him to smile. Harley tilts her head. “Whatchu thinkin’?”

“Nothing special.” He sips at his coffee.

Harley grows tired of Batman’s ‘brooding silence’ as she calls it, and leaves while popping her bubble-gum at him. She drops it next to the entrance as an extra annoyance. He waves to her with the tips of his fingers, and she sticks her tongue out. Joker doesn’t appear to start a fight with him at the taunt. Somehow, the lack of confrontation makes Batman restless. Cranky. He wants to snap at anything that breathes his way.

He sleeps poorly that night.


	13. Act 8: A

Every patient has a weekly “Zen” session with Dr. Crane; often, it’s the one they most look forward to due to its lack of structure and thinking. It’s a chance to spend an hour with soothing smells and deep relaxation techniques. Dr. Crane studied which odours calm and open the mind most, allowing for a psychologically healing experience. The women appreciate it most of all, leaving with a smile. Pamela even asked for a hug after last week’s session; she said she was “cleansed.”

Bruce, like with most matters of the mind, provides a different response. Because he’s so repressed, so deeply inside his imagined world, the aromatherapy causes him anxiety. As soon as he sees Dr. Crane slide on his half-mask, he panics. Bruce stands from his chair, rushing to the furthest corner of the room, scraping at the walls and doors to escape the smells.

As much as Dr. Crane would like to avoid wearing a mask, it’s necessary to the treatment so he can keep a clear mind while studying the effects on the patients. In Bruce’s case, it induces a strong sense of fear. There’s no use removing his mask now; he’s already convinced

When he tries to approach, Bruce shouts, “Get away! I don’t want to see these things. They’re not real!” He curls in on himself, sliding his back against the wall until he’s as minuscule as he can make himself. Though he’s a grown man, of six feet in height, he could easily be mistaken for a teenager again.

Dr. Crane frowns, taking a slow step backwards. There’s no way to end the session until the scents evaporate on their own. Bruce has no choice but to endure. As he trembles against the wall, clutching at his pants, his shirt, Dr. Crane almost wishes he could see what he does. It must be awful to hate reality so much that creating an elaborate world is the only option.

Eventually, the blend of smells has cleared enough that Dr. Crane pulls off his mask, rushing over to Bruce for support. He must be less frightening this way. “Are you all right? It’s over now.” He touches his arm when he doesn’t pull his head from the crook of his shoulder. “It’s over, I swear.”

In a slow unfolding of limbs, Bruce stands. Dr. Crane stands with him, a hand on his arm to keep him steady. Bruce’s eyes are bloodshot when he peers at him, likely from having scrubbed them for an hour. He brushes Dr. Crane’s hold away, pushing his chest out menacingly. His body uses with fury as he hunches his back. Once he outstretches his arms, mimicking the bat character he believes himself to be, Dr. Crane runs over to the side desk to contact the guards over intercom.

They run down the hall at full speed, Harvey at the head, but Bruce has already broken Dr. Crane’s nose by the time they drag him away sedated. His body hands, limp, his feet bumping against the shiny linoleum tiles. Dr. Crane stays behind the desk, paralyzed, holding a hand to his nose to stop blood from getting everywhere.

This isn’t Bruce’s usual rejection of treatment; it was something more profound. A striking refusal to accept the specific image he saw during the therapy. Something he hasn’t seen in the past. A piece of memory Bruce has been keeping hidden the longest. Dr. Crane wonders what could be worse than his parents’ murders.


	14. Act 8: B

It's like a torture chamber. In fact, it must be one because there are chains, and he's trapped in a seat, and he's being tortured.

Scarecrow’s mind gas has Batman folded over in agony. Flashes of his parents, Robin - anyone he’s ever met – force their way into his psyche. He sees their deaths, over and over, until he sees nothing but black. A dark room boxing him in surrounded by long corridors without light. His mansion is gone; his freedom wanders away. It’s just him, this dark room in this dark hospital, and his even darker thoughts. He can hear Scarecrow speaking, somewhere far off, likely boasting how well the chemical works on him. He stays in this dark room a long time – no light, no people, just him and a hard cot. A cold floor underneath his bare feet. A tinted window with no bars. It’s quiet at least.

That is, until Scarecrow’s voice amplifies, and he can feel the effects wearing off. He smirks at Batman while asking, “How was it?”

Batman suddenly wishes he’d die of an unexpected heart attack, so he won’t have to get his hands dirty killing Scarecrow. He settles for punching him hard enough to break his nose instead.

When he’s satisfied with Batman’s grim scowl and flushed face, Scarecrow leaves with a skip to his step, his brown, sewn mask swinging from one palm. He sends others in after him to take Batman away.  
They throw him in the street, close enough to the mansion that he can make it home without calling out for Alfred's help. He rushes out with an umbrella anyway, helping him inside.


	15. Act 9

The sunlight creates patterns of orange against Dr. Carr’s face as he speaks with Bruce. It’s the following day, Dr. Quinzel having been unsuccessful at providing some type of outlet for him in her session. Dr. Carr has a few ideas of his own. He was keeping it for a last ditch effort because he prefers to keep his life experiences separate from the patients’ lives.

The therapy room has a warmth to it from the sunlight seeping in, and Dr. Carr hopes it’s a sign of promise.

“Bruce, I know what it’s like to wish the scars weren’t there,” he tells him. He leans slightly forward, trying to make this discussion more intimate than previous ones.

Bruce leans away, his frown tight, taut as a wire.

“We both have mental scars,” Dr. Carr adds. He touches his mouth, the scars there jagged and thick. They’re healed now, but touching them brings a surge of memories back. “Did I ever explain how I got these?” Dr. Carr noticed that patients tend to open up when given a personal story in return; it worked quite well with Selina. She’s been making leaps of improvement since then.

Bruce swallows, shaking his head. “No, you didn’t.” he doesn’t seem particularly interested in finding out either.

Dr. Carr clears his throat, crossing his hands in his lap. He leans back to give Bruce the space he needs. “A sadistic man, a serial killer by the name of _Slice,_ singled my family out. He’d been known to pick single-child families. No one understood why that mattered to him, but it did.”

In all his years as a psychiatrist, he’s never told a patient this story. He’d thought it too personal, too violent; an easy way to induce more trauma instead of offering aid. But Bruce is different in many ways. If anything, it might make him face his own demons.

Dr. Carr takes a slow breath, his palms already clammy. It’s been a long time since he’s thought about this. “He chose my family, and his usual technique was to torture and kill the parents in front of their only child. Afterward, he would normally stab or shoot the child – a quick death – and place their body next to the parents’ corpses.” At that, Dr. Carr’s hand starts to shake. He doesn’t want to relive the pain, but if it helps Bruce in any way, it’s worth a couple nightmares later.

“My parents were being toyed with, cut and beaten, and I was overpowered by Slice and the pain he was causing them. I knew it was too late to save their lives even if he let me leave. I also knew what came next; we’d all heard it on the news before.”

Dr. Carr crosses his legs, pressing his fingers into his slacks to keep his voice even. Bruce watches him with rapt focus, a surprise for them both surely. “He had a knife in my mouth so I couldn’t move my face away from the scene, and when it was my time… My mother’s eyes were squinted, almost shut, and she mouthed _run_ to me – so I did. I fought and I pulled, and he kept the knife in my mouth, so sure it would stop me from getting away.”

The corners of his lips, where the scars are the thickest, start to tingle like sense-memory. An ache he’s long pushed away. “You could say I did this to myself by fighting back, but I chose to listen to my mother. And to live period.”

He breathes out in an attempt to release the ghastly image of his parents’ bodies filled with wounds. Her words echo as strongly as they did that night. If not for her, he would have let himself die. He didn’t want to live without them. Dr. Carr looks up at Bruce; he recognizes a single moment of empathy, but Bruce quickly forces it away. His face returns to the usual frown.

It might seem like he doesn’t care, but Dr. Carr can still try. “I chose to become a doctor because I wanted to understand how someone could take so many innocent lives and not feel regret. I thought if I understood, it would hurt less. In some ways, it does.” He uncrosses his legs, reaching for his cup of coffee on the table.

Bruce hasn’t touched his own since he began the story, but he takes it now. After a sip, he says, “How are we similar? I fight for others to not experience these painful events, and you just watch it happen and analyze the result.” He scoffs, looking out the window. “Are we done here?”

It takes a moment for Dr. Carr to swallow his drink without choking. He can’t say he’s entirely surprised with that reaction. Bruce has a tendency to pinpoint the worst of everyone and focus on it – a way of protecting himself in case they turn on him. He doesn’t want to be taken off guard like his parents were.

*

Patient Profile

Name: Bruce Wayne

Age: 28

Illness: delusions & severe hallucinations caused by PTSD, dislike of authority and crime

Background Info: His parents were killed when he was ten years old, and the trauma stuck with him as he went through foster care. It eventually got worse; no one had the patience or knowledge to help him recover. At eighteen, he was sent to Arkham as a possible permanent residence.


	16. Act 10 - 1

It’s close to evening, and Diana makes one stop to Bruce’s room to make sure he’s all right. As she’s leaving, she gives him a soft smile and a wave, whispering, “Have a good night.” She’s not nearly as kind when she passes by Harvey doing his usual rounds. He noticed her body language as she exited the room, and he sees her blank politeness now. It’s almost physical the sting it causes Harvey.

\---

 

Harvey can hear his voice. When he sneaks up to the room, he realizes Bruce is speaking to no one again.

“When’s the wedding with Diana, princess of Wales?” Robin laughs rowdily.

Unlike every other time Robin has made a joke about a woman and him, this time Bruce flushes, looking away.

“Wow, you really like this one,” says Robin with wide eyes. “I mean…that’s great! Just didn’t think you’d show it.” Bruce nudges him on the bed, trying to shove him off. “Aww, you’re so cute, Brucie.” He laughs.

“Don’t be mean. I could say the same about you and that Lois lady. You read everything she writes.”

Robin groans. “Yeah, to find out about Superman! She’s obsessed with him you know.”

Bruce chuckles. “So it’s flying men you’re after. Good thing you know me then. I can get you in.”

“Ha-ha-ha.” Robin rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest childishly. Bruce doesn’t miss the colouring of his cheeks; there’s something to the denial. But from his adamant refusal, Bruce knows he shouldn’t push too much.

“I’m just joking, kid.”

Robin grins happily. “Yeah, I know.”

Harvey steps into the room sharply. “Still talking to imaginary friends after getting someone like Diana to like you?” he says with a smirk. “If you don’t know what to do with a woman like that, I can take her off your hands.”

Bruce whispers, “Robin, you need to leave. _Now_.”

Robin shakes his head furiously. “I can see how bad this is going to get. It’s personal now.”

“That’s why you need to go. I can handle it,” warns Bruce.

“Aw, aren’t you sweet? Protecting imaginary friends now. Let me help.” Harvey walks around Bruce’s room, raising his voice. “Leave whoever you are and let the adults play.”

“I’m not letting him hurt you this time,” growls Robin. He snarls, pitching forward to tackle Harvey. For a moment, Harvey loses his balance, his skin prickling. He glances around trying to find the source but can’t.

Harvey turns to Bruce. “Think that shit’s funny? I’ll show you a real good joke.”

Robin rushes in again, Bruce reaching to stop him, but he’s already there. He swings too wide, hitting air more than anything.

 

*

 

“What does she even see in a piece of shit like you?” grits Harvey for the fifth time. His fist connects with more than just skin, jarring Bruce’s mouth open each time. His knuckles split open from the next punch, and he shouts, “You fuck!” as though Bruce is the one to blame.

One of his eyes is swollen shut, the other well on its way to that point. Harvey drops him on the floor, and shakes off his outer shirt, leaving only a grey tank on. He crouches next to Bruce who sobs out Robin’s name when Harvey grips his hair fiercely. “Robin? Is that your imaginary friend? Guess they’re dead now, huh?” He slams Bruce’s face into the floor, blood from the assault splattering across the tiles.

Distantly, the sound of footsteps approach from down the hall. Harvey figures it’s likely another guard who would cover him if they caught him like this. They always do. He’s too preoccupied with trying to crack Bruce’s skull to look up.

Bruce continues to mutter Robin’s name, each time a bit more broken, a bit lower. He mutters his name like a chant, a summons, a plea for the gods to revive him. “Save Robin, please!” he screams out with the last of his aching voice.

Bane strides into the room with purpose, sudden and swift, lifting Harvey up as if he weighs nothing. So light he’d make paper seem heavy. Bane wastes no time throwing him around the room, creating dents in the walls and opening wounds in Harvey’s bared skin. He lifts him over his head and up at the ceiling, letting him crash back down against his knee just hard enough to break bones but not kill.

Harvey wheezes in agony, clawing at the floor. He shakes his head frantically. “No, no, no, no,” he argues. “No, you can’t do this to me.”

Bane’s mouth twists angrily. He leaves him there to moan, knowing he won’t be able to stand for a while. His father taught him to never use his fighting techniques on another person after he nearly killed students in a martial arts competition. This time it’s necessary force.

Bruce writhes, his nails broken from scratching at the floor. “Why, Robin? Why’d you do this?”

There’s no one named Robin in the facility, so Bane can’t tell who he’s talking about. He ignores it in favour of heaving him onto the bed. He might be a frustratingly stubborn man, but this is way beyond what he deserves. Bruce is in too much pain to put up a struggle, groaning when the throbbing pain returns full force. As much as Bane would like to help, he’s not a doctor. He’ll need to call one. He touches his shoulder to get his attention. “Hey, hey, are you okay for a few minutes?”

Bruce tries to blink his less swollen eye open, and he notices the man above him. He pushes him away. “You did this! You did all this.”

 

\---

 

An hour earlier, Harvey was plotting a way to get rid of Bane. An hour ago, they all overheard that Bane would be dismissed in a week. Harvey’s plan wouldn’t matter. He wouldn’t get a chance to enact revenge against him. After that, and Diana treating him icily, he lost it.

As he pummelled Bruce, he hissed out, “Everyone speaks so fuckin’ highly of you as if you’re some saviour for crazies. All you do is complain and talk to dead people. You’re a psycho with no friends and no family. You’re nothing. Your world doesn’t exist you piece of shit.”

Bruce coughed blood into his face, the only thing he could do in retaliation. Harvey's face turned red. “You good for nothing orphan. Who the fuck cares if you probably own most of Gotham. Once Bane is gone, you’ve got no one to save you. Hell, might as well kill you tonight. He won’t care.”

 

\---

 

The bed creaks when he sits up closer to Bane. “He hated you. He wanted to prove he could do this with you still here. It’s all because of you!” Bruce shoves bane again, finding strength in his agony. Robin gone quiet to him.

“I just helped you. I saved your life,” says Bane, stepping back.

“You destroyed mine and Robin’s. Get out!” he tries to sit up fully, but falls back to the floor. “Get out!”

 

\---

 

Clark hears the commotion, and sneaks out of his room. Bane stalks out of Bruce’s room, his shoulders tense. Clark checks in there first. He glances between Bruce with his beaten face and Two-Face unable to get off the ground. He drags Harvey out into the hall, ready to continue whatever Bane started with him, but he’s stopped.

Bane says, “Let him go. He needs to face the doctors. Don’t make yourself a guilty party.”

Clark breathes slower, peering back in Bruce’s room, where he drools blood against the floor. “I can’t just—” Bruce is his friend. More than anyone else in this hospital, he is. He cares about people. He talks to everyone. He’s weird, sure, but he’s never violent, mean. Not to him.

“Watch over Bruce then. I’ll ensure he receives proper punishment when they return,” explains Bane, continuing down the hall.

 

\---

 

The hours crawl by slowly with Bruce moaning through the night. He tells Clark to leave him alone with his thoughts, needing to mourn Robin on his own. Clark doesn’t ask who Robin is; it seems personal. Close to his heart.

The other patients greet the doctors when they arrive, peeking out their rooms quietly; Bruce, Bane and Clark do not. Usually, Harvey is the first to greet them as they arrive, and he sees them off when they leave in the evening as well.

“Where’s Harvey?” asks Dr. Carr.

Pamela shrugs. Selina looks down at the floor.

Diana saves them the trouble by speaking up for them. “I think you should ask Bruce to explain.”

 

\---

 

The doctors find him in bed, pillows propped, with a few extra from another room. His wounds are severe but treated. They approach slowly, their hands at their sides not to alarm him. Dr. Quinzel speaks first, “What happened here, Bruce?”

“It’s Bane’s fault. He did this. He caused this. He made Harvey kill Robin,” whimpers Bruce, close to weeping. He turns on his side, pressing his face into the pillows, his body shaking. From the look of his eyes, he’s been crying all night.

She lowers her voice, lowering herself to the side of his bed. “Tell me everything, Bruce.”

When he looks up, veins in his eyes have burst, his forehead is cut, his jaw is deformed from trauma to it and there are bruises everywhere. He’s barely recognizable if not for his voice. “Bane _made_ this happen,” he insists.

Dr. Quinzel knows he would never lay a hand on a fellow patient this way. He has anger issues, but they’re under control.

“Who hurt your face like this?” asks Dr. Carr. “Tell us so they can be apprehended.”

“What do you care? This has been going on for years.” He squeezes his eyes shut when he tries to lie prone. “Two-Face has always done this to us and you never stopped him before. You probably pay him to do it.”

Dr. Quinzel clears her throat, stroking his hair. “Who is Two-Face?”

He shakes his head, slapping her hand away. “Why don’t you care that Bane got Robin killed?” he cries, hysterical. He reaches for her shirt collar. “Bane and Two-Face did this. Help Robin. Help him. Do something and stop asking questions,” he shouts desperately.

Dr. Quinzel nods, removing his hands. “Just relax. We’ll take care of it.” She turns to her colleague, whispering, “Should we tell him about Robin?”

“I don’t think now—”

“Tell me! What is it? Is he okay?” asks Bruce, shakily sitting up in bed again, both of his eyes nearly swollen shut.

Dr. Carr glances around the room. The furniture they provide is thrown around the room, windows nearly shattered, books astray, walls dented from impact, blood splatters on the floor… The Band-Aid needs to come off now, while Bruce is present in this moment, aware of himself. He nods for Dr. Quinzel to go ahead.

Taking a breath, she says, “Robin was never born. He died when your mother was killed, Bruce. Remember? He was going to be your little brother. Alfred told us—”

Bruce stops listening after ‘born.’ They’re lying to him like they always have. They can do nothing but. Their only goal to perpetually upset him, disturb the precarious balance of sanity he’s found in his mind. He grinds his teeth hard, closing his eyes. “I want to go outside. I don’t want to be in here. I can’t stay in this place anymore.”

“We don’t have anyone to accompany you right now besides Bane, and you’ve shown how vehemently against being around him you are.”

Bruce gets up on his own, wobbling on his feet. “I’ll go. I don’t care with who. Just let me out of here. I need air.”

Dr. Carr says, “All right. But I need to ask him a few things. It won’t be long.”

 

\---

 

The doctors find Bane outside, not reading but pacing. He ignores their approach, continuing to pace.

“Is everything all right?” asks Joe. “I saw a bit of what happened.”

Bane paces in front of the flower beds twice more, breathes in deeply, then sits. He closes his eyes. “I am not the one who was hurt.”

“I understand,” says Joe. “But Bruce says you are to blame. I know that couldn’t be true. I need you to explain.”

Harleen adds, “I know you’ve only hurt people who had it coming. Say, like the man who beat Bruce nearly unconscious. Who is—?”

Bane groans, standing back up. His pacing resumes, faster. “If Bruce hasn’t said, it’s not my place to do so.”

Joe moves in closer. “Bane, this is critical information,” he explains. “I need to know who’s to blame. I need to know if others were hurt.”

The flowerbeds steal Bane’s attention again; stares into them, his mind wandering away. Everyone knows this garden usually keeps his mind at ease. It’s his place of calm, of tranquil thought. He takes his book, forgotten on the bench, and throws it with the flowers.

“They were all hurt.”

 

\---

 

Harleen may have kept her cool in Bruce’s presence, but she stomps down the hall to the orderlies’ quarters once she’s left his room. Joe follows close behind, not uttering a word even when she kicks their door open. “Which one of you is Two-Face?”

In unison, they point to Harvey lying flat on his back. He couldn’t run if he wanted. He groans out in the affirmative. She glares at him, her words directed at the rest of the men. “Let me see the tapes from last night,” she says. “And if any second of it has been cut I will hang every one of you from the nearest tree.”

“Ye-yes, ma’am,” one of them stutters. It’s the man Harvey usually pays to erase the parts that have incriminating evidence as to his behaviour. The man who goes through the recordings every night, and edits out all the abuse and violence, the sexual deviance, and the power hungry acts Harvey hides when the doctors are present.

“Are there others?” she asks, keeping her eyes focused on the onslaught against Bruce. It’s brutal, sudden, and completely inhumane. She’s almost ready to cheer when she sees Bane walk in and beat the life out of Harvey. He deserved it.

“Are there others?” she snaps when no one answers. “Did you erase them all?”

“Y-yes,” mumbles another orderly. One of the many who had been covering for Harvey. They were under his command; he probably threatened them if they didn’t agree to help out.

Joe slides his palm down his face. “If I had any idea the monster Harvey is, I would have taken him to pasture myself.”

“Joe,” scolds Harleen. “Don’t let yourself be at his level.”

He waves it off, kneeling next to Harvey’s still body. Sharply, he whispers, “You think hurting people in need of help is all right, do ya?”

Harvey’s eyes widen at the danger in his tone; he sounds like he never has in the past. Deep, gravelly, a hint of rage at every syllable. “I may be a healer now but that wasn’t always the case. I want to show you who I was in my past.”

Harleen sighs at Joe, prodding him with a finger as he stands up unnaturally slow, never cutting eye contact with Harvey. “You can’t do it, Joe. The police will deal with him. He’ll go to jail. He’s already injured—”

Joe ignores her, leaving the security room. When he returns, he’s holding a knife. Harleen steps in front of him, but he shoves her away. “Do you wanna know how I got these scars?”

Harvey swallows, but Harleen grabs the arm with the switchblade, pulling it away from Joe. He doesn’t put up much of a fight. “Don’t bother. You’ll throw away everything you worked for. ‘Sides, he’s already hurt.”

“He didn’t care about our patients and their scars!” since he can’t cut the man, he kicks him in the side. Then again. “Why should I do him any favours?” he kicks him once more.

Harvey cowers, curling up in spite of his back injuries. Some of the kicks connect with his ribs, others with his thighs and arms. Each one jars his frame, his back aching worse as he tightens up. Harleen stops Joe as much as she can – until one of the men speak up:

“I heard Harvey kept a copy of his favourite tapes in his locker.”

 

\---

 

In this light, the soft morning glow, Bruce looks much younger than he is. Bane accompanied him out in the garden at the doctors’ request. If he’s so perturbed by the night’s events that he wouldn’t mind being in Bane’s presence, well… Maybe he understands who the one at fault really is.

Bane wraps a blanket around Bruce’s shoulders; he’s only in light cotton clothes, and it’s a chilly morning. It won’t warm up for the next few hours. He considers searching for his book since it was his mother’s copy when he hears glass smash.

“Stay here,” he tells Bruce.

The man barely acknowledges his presence, rocking on the bench.

Dr. Quinzel has taken her custom-designed bat and broken Harvey’s car windows with it. She advances towards the hospital with a violent smirk. She breezes through the garden, quickening her pace. Bane follows a few steps behind. She walks down the hall, heading for the security room. When she raises the bat, Bane grabs her arms, shaking her. “Dr. Quinzel, control yourself.”

She blinks as if shaken from a trance. Her arms lower. She looks down at Harvey, a bloody mess on the ground, incapable of any movement. His face matches Bruce’s now.

“What’s going on?” he asks her quietly. The orderlies breathe loud, huddled in a corner of the room together, afraid to move.

Dr. Quinzel huffs out a humourless laugh. “This disgusting, lying, wretched sack of flesh has been raping some of the patients, female and male. _Raping_ them,” she howls in a blood-curdling scream. Her eyes stay fixed on Harvey’s broken face. “Let me go so I can crush his parts to dust.”

“Doctor,” says Bane, “You cannot do that.” His own voice trembles; he hadn’t known. He saw their hollow eyes, tired faces, their apprehension to walk the halls alone, but not one of them told. It’s no wonder they always find glass shards underneath Pamela’s pillow. It’s no wonder Selina refuses to leave her room without Pamela. It’s no wonder Bruce speaks to someone who isn’t there, and denies everyone else entry to his room.

Bane’s mouth goes dry when he sees the hurt in Dr. Quinzel’s eyes; someone has taken advantage of her, too. The reflection of their hallow looks come morning is reflected in her face, their pain the same.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “Come with me. We’ll speak to Diana about this when she arrives. She can help, I’m certain.”

“The damage is done, Bane. Whatever chance these people had of being sane again has been taken. He stole it from them. They must feel so empty.” She shakes violently, gripping the bat with white knuckles. “No wonder Bruce won’t leave his own mind. Anything is better than this.”

Bane nods solemnly. “I’m sorry I did not notice sooner.”

She touches his shoulder. “It’s our job to watch over these fragile minds. Yours included.” She wipes a tear before it falls. “We failed you. We let the others drown.” She presses in against Bane. “We left them to die.”

“We can send him to prison now for the rest of his life,” says Bane. The only comfort they have left.


	17. Act 10 - 2

Bane calls the police first. Then he calls an ambulance for Harvey – _Two-Face_ rather. Bane prefers that moniker; it’s exactly who he is and how he’s behaved at Arkham. How he’ll surely continue to live once he’s incarcerated.

Harleen won’t leave the security room. She insists on watching Harvey in case he tries to flee before he’s arrested. Bane stays by her side because she’s still holding the bat tightly in her hands, ready to swing at a moment’s notice. Briefly, he wonders where Joe is, but drives away the thought. As long as the doctor isn’t in the room, Bane doesn’t need to worry about him attacking Harvey again.

The guilty orderlies stay in the corner, apprehensive of Harleen. Bane hugs her, patting her back to try and appease the incessant surge of rage she has going. She has done so much for him and his aggression; it’s only right he return the favour. It’s so quiet in the room; it almost seems like time has frozen. She looks up at Bane, her lips curling up in a tense smile. It must hurt her to plaster one on this way. Her eyes shift an inch to the side, away from him, towards someone else, and Bane _knows_ he’s too late.

Joe rushes in, his knife sinking into Harvey before Bane can stop him. His hands are so fast. He yanks the blade out even faster. Bane pulls him up from the ground, holding his arms behind his back. “Why, doctor. You could have stayed here and helped. This was needless violence.”

“I did help,” he says. “Don’t you see?” He laughs, licking his lips. The makeup usually covering his scars chips away, and they’re so much fouler than Bane imagined. Stretched with his wide smile.

Harleen touches Joe's. “I forgive you. I was considering the same thing, honey.”

 

\---

 

The police arrive, and Joe turns himself in. He takes complete responsibility for every violent act committed against Harvey, including the back breaking. He tells Bane beforehand, “Do not speak. Let me do this for you. You need to live your life. I have chosen what to do with mine.”

They aren’t rough when they put the cuffs on; everyone knows _Dr. Joe Carr_ and how many people he’s rehabilitated. They don’t blame him for going after a man purposely shattering people’s spirits and minds.

Harvey Dent’s body is removed on a stretcher, his breathing shallow but still there. The news say he doesn’t make it to the hospital.

When Harleen finds out he’s passed away, she seeks out Bane. They sit on his bed one last time; he’ll be leaving tomorrow for a life outside of Arkham. “You were right,” she says.

“About what?” he asks. She rests her head on his shoulder, and he wraps his arm around her.

She sighs. “There’s no comfort in his death. For any of us.”

“I wish I wasn’t right,” he replies, handing her his copy of Dante’s Inferno. 

 

Patient Profile  
Name: Bane (first or last uncertain)  
Age: 35  
Illness: violent manic episodes  
Background Info: He checked himself in by choice when he realized his violence went too far. He's wealthy through his mother, who dies, and left him all her books. His stepfather took over raising him, but he didn't care for him. Because of the lack of affection, he sought attention outwardly - women, fighting, etc. On his worst night, he broke fifty of a man's bones.

 

\---

 

Bruce knows who he is, and he doesn’t like it. He hasn’t saved anyone, not even himself. He never could have saved Robin. There’s little comfort to be had in that. It still hurts. For ten years, Robin was with him, in him, alongside him. He kept Bruce from wanting to die.

Deep down, he knew he wasn’t still at home. He wonders where Alfred is now, if he’s working in someone else’s home. Another family taken kindly under his care. The room seems so small, every wall a reminder of a lie he’s told himself, boxing him in, keeping him from ever knowing who he was.

Diana visits when he doesn’t eat at lunch call.

“Are you doing any better? Not hungry?” she says, taking a seat on his bed.

He can’t look at her. “I want to be elsewhere than here.”

Diana nods. “Yeah, I think we all do after what Harvey has done.” She slowly places a hand on his back, rubbing. “Maybe you’ll be able to go sooner than you think now that you’re realizing where you are.”

“It felt so real,” he says, quiet. Robin the most. He was the best friend he never had. The bravest little brother.

Diana moves her hand down his arm, to his hand, intertwining their fingers. “Come in the garden with me? I'll share my thermos with coffee.”

“Okay,” he says, holding her hand tighter.


	18. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> suspend disbelief?

Robin is in his dreams. Robin is there at night. In the daytime. Bruce just keeps arguing with him, telling him to go, and let him live a real life.

“You’re not real. Stop. Please. None of it was ever real.” He covers his ears. “I just want to be home with Alfred, doing something for the world. Leave me alone.”

All of the sessions are easier. Dr. Carr and Dr. Quinzel don’t scare him anymore now that he sees who they are: damaged, but strong -- just like him. They overcame, and so can he. So he shall.

Bruce gets to leave for a while. The arrangement is he can do one week in, one week out, until he’s fully integrated back with society. Then he won’t need to go to Arkham again – unless he wants to. (He might.) Diana gives him her phone number, not sure if he’ll ever call. Arkham is different than the world outside. It’s smaller, more intimate. He calls her twice per week, and even brings her to his parents' graves. She buys them roses of different colours.

\---

On one of the Arkham weeks, Robin visits his room. He won’t leave his thoughts this time. As stubborn as Bruce is with him.

“No, I am real. Look, you can see me.”

Bruce covers his ears. “No you’re not. I made you up to cope with my parents’ death. Our parents’ death.”

“I’m right here!” he shouts. He pinches Bruce, and it hurts.

“Ow! No, no, no.” He rubs his arm. It’s in his mind. Pain comes from the mind. None of it can be real. If he ever wants to get a grip on his life, he has to come to terms with that. There’s no other way. There’s no other way to get out of here.

“Dude, whatever. I’ll prove it.” He walks out of Bruce’s room.

Bruce lies down in bed, breathing fast. It slows when some time passes. Enough time passes that he starts to feel tired from staring at the ceiling, the panic fading into a dull calm. Clark discusses with someone in the other room. His voice is clear, but the other person’s isn’t. Bruce ignores it, turning on his side to sleep.

“Bruce?” calls Clark. “Bruce, can you come here for a second?”

As much as he’d like to ignore Clark, he’s a good man. He’s a nice guy. They’ve never had much problems, even in the beginning. He’s mysterious, but that’s not his fault. Even he doesn’t know why he’s here – part of why he may never be able to leave.

Bruce staggers over to Clark’s room, drowsy. Robin is sitting on Clark’s bed, a smug smile on his face. Bruce carefully keeps his eyes averted to not show how crazy he is still. It might scare Clark off.

With a few measured steps, Clark approaches Bruce. “Do you know him?”

Bruce blinks. He can’t be referring to Robin. No one knows him. No one can see him. He’s proven that with the day Harvey was taken away. “Who?”

Clark crosses his arms. He only does that when he thinks the person he’s speaking to is lying.

“I’m serious. Who are you talking about?”

Tilting his head, Clark narrows his eyes. “You don’t see that teenager sitting on my bed? He’s got shoulder length hair, brown eyes, a smug grin…”

There must be something completely wrong with him. He must be asleep. He must have sleepwalked here. Something is going on. No way can Clark see Robin too because he’s not real. He’s not. He was never born, never lived, never died (in the usual sense).

“You do see him,” says Clark, and it’s not a question. “Why is he in my room?”

“I’m right here!” says Robin. “Geez, you old people are weird. One of you doesn’t want to talk to me, the other one talks as if I’m not in the room.”

“Shut up a second,” says Bruce. “Why can _you_ see him?” His hallucinations can’t be contagious. And why does he only see Robin in here. It never happens when he’s back in the mansion with Alfred.

“I’ve always seen things other people haven’t. I thought it was part of my illness. Whatever it is,” explains Clark.

“They still haven’t diagnosed you?”

“Nope,” he says with a sigh. "Pretty sure I'm some cyborg or something though."

“Still here,” says Robin.

“Shut up,” he and Clark say in unison.

“Wow,” says Bruce.

Clark shrugs. “I have no idea how I can see him. Or why you see him. Let’s just not tell the doctors.”

Bruce clears his throat, leaning to see Robin’s dumb grin from behind Clark’s frame. “Fine with me.”

**Author's Note:**

> please comment if you have a moment. :)


End file.
